


Remorse

by ImpishTubist



Series: Regeneration [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letters from home bring both sorrow and joy to the <i>Voyager </i>crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kim J (KimJ_aka_notluvulongtime)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kim+J+%28KimJ_aka_notluvulongtime%29).



> This takes place during the beginning of “Hunters” in _Voyager_ canon, which I’m warping a bit so that several months pass between “Message in a Bottle” and that episode. I also took some liberties with Chakotay’s background, Trek canon in general, dialogue from the episode, etc. Mea culpa, mea culpa. Written for notluvulongtime. Originally posted weeks ago on my Tumblr

Chakotay didn’t remember leaving engineering.

He didn’t remember entering the turbolift, either, or voicing the command for deck twelve. He knew that he must have, though, for he found himself standing outside Greg’s quarters without a memory of his feet having brought him there. 

The last thing he remembered was B’Elanna’s face; the feel of her hot breath against his cheek as she raged at him.

_ They were slaughtered, Chakotay! _

He remembered, too, his feeble excuse, the kind of useless condolence he would have slapped someone for five years ago had they tried it on him.

_ We all knew where it could lead, B’Elanna. _

What a thing to say.

He pressed the door chime without really thinking about it, and then silently cursed himself. It was the middle of the night, ship’s time, and not everyone kept the same hours that he did. He might have technically been slated for alpha shift, but lately his eight hour shifts had turned into fifteen-hour ones. Most days, he took a break during beta shift and came back on for gamma, when most everyone else in their right mind was sleeping if they weren’t on duty.

Sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that, truthfully. Certainly not since the letters from home had started coming through, though he’d been awake for long before that. Twenty-four hours, now? Twenty-six?

It occurred to him after a long period of silence that perhaps Greg was truly asleep, and that the door chime hadn’t disturbed him after all. Chakotay knew he should leave, should go back to his own quarters, but he wasn’t sure he could make his feet respond to his commands. They felt like lead, while his head felt as though someone had stuffed it with cotton. 

“Chakotay?”

He forced his eyes from his feet, where he’d been contemplating a scuff mark on his polished shoes, and saw with a start that the door was open and that Greg was staring back at him. He jumped, and Greg’s concerned face turned into one of deep worry.

“Are you still on duty?” he asked with no small amount of surprise, taking in Chakotay and his still-uniformed body.

“Yes. No. Well…” Chakotay trailed off. He swallowed. His mouth was dry. “I don’t remember, actually.”

“Christ, man, you look like hell. C’mon, inside.” Greg took him by the elbow and pulled him over the threshold. Chakotay was surprised that his feet cooperated, though his steps were halting. “Computer, lights twenty percent.”

He pushed Chakotay into a nearby chair and then went over to the replicator. Chakotay didn’t register his words, but a moment later a cool glass of water was being pushed into his hands.

“Drink,” Greg ordered, and Chakotay did. “What’s going on? _Say_ something, Chakotay, you’re scaring the shite out of me.”

“Sorry,” Chakotay croaked finally. Greg took the glass from his hand and set it aside. He then gently pried Chakotay’s fingers off the PADD he was clutching and put that on the table, too. Chakotay hadn’t realized until then that he’d still been holding it. 

He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stay like that with Greg hovering over him like a nursemaid, and he pushed himself to his feet. Greg said nothing while Chakotay paced over to the window and braced his hands on the ledge, gazing out at the darkness. Chakotay stared at the unfamiliar stars, conjuring up constellations in his mind, and tried to calm his thundering heart. He recognized the adrenaline thrumming through his limbs, making him tremble with pent-up energy. He need to do something, needed to act, but at sixty thousand light years away from the site of the slaughter, he couldn’t have been more useless. 

“That’s a letter,” Greg said finally. “One of the ones from - from home?”

It must have felt strange for him, saying that. The _Voyager_ crew was fighting tooth and nail to get back to a home that was separated from them only by distance. Greg would never see his home again. The location was the same; the time was different. It was an obstacle that was impossible to overcome. 

“Yeah.”

“Bad news, I take it.” Greg was nothing if not frank. 

“Not great.” What was he doing, trying to cushion the news already? _Not great_ , indeed. More like horrific. _Spirits_ , what was the matter with him?

“Chakotay.” Greg’s hand was warm on his back, and Chakotay bit his lip. He wasn’t ever going to get used to this, Greg’s unending capacity for kindness. He had come to them battered and traumatized, waking up one day to discover that his family had been dead for three hundred years. It was something that could have driven even the sturdiest man insane, but Greg… he was nothing but kind. He had grieved, and would probably always be in some form of mourning, but he was also an imminently practical man. He had got to his feet and brushed himself off, and he was slowly learning where he belonged in this new century.

And, in the year since his arrival on _Voyager_ , he was slowly beginning to learn that he could care for another. It hadn’t been easy, not by a long shot, but in the months since their first hesitant kiss in Sickbay, Greg and Chakotay were tentatively navigating a burgeoning affection.

Sometimes that frightened Chakotay, in all honesty. He had managed perfectly well for forty-five years without a Greg Lestrade in his life, but now he had no idea how he’d managed it. And he didn’t think it would ever be true again.

“I’ve told you about Sveta,” Chakotay said finally, his voice quiet, “the woman who recruited me into the Maquis.”

“Yes.”

“The letter was from her,” Chakotay went on. He blew out a harsh breath between his teeth. “They - um. They’re all gone. All of the Maquis. They were - they were taken out.”

He drew a deep breath.

“Hell, Greg, they were slaughtered like animals,” he whispered. “Every last one of them, except the ones who were - who were lucky enough to be in prison at the time. For the most part, we’re the only ones left. There are only forty of us on this ship, and we easily outnumber the Maquis left in the Alpha Quadrant. There were thousands of us. But now…”

He trailed off. 

“Is your family safe?” Greg asked.

Chakotay closed his eyes. His sister Sekaya and his mother had been relocated to one of the refugee colonies shortly after Dorvan V was lost. But that had been before Chakotay was stranded in the Delta Quadrant, and in the years since, they had vanished. Sveta had tried, with what limited resources she had, to contact them, but she had been unsuccessful. Chakotay had no idea where they were living now, if they even were alive anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said quietly, reading the answer in Chakotay’s silence. “When are you due back on the bridge?”

Chakotay turned around. Greg took his face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over Chakotay’s stubbled cheeks. Chakotay framed Greg’s hips with his hands and shut his eyes, trying to quell his racing thoughts and just focus on what was in front of him: Greg’s solid warmth, the spice of his skin, the feel of his callused thumbs as they rasped over Chakotay’s jaw. 

“I haven’t got long,” he said at last. “Seven and Tuvok are in a shuttle, trying to salvage the rest of the letters from the Array. They’re due back soon.”

“You need sleep.”

Chakotay rested his forehead against Greg’s. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

But hell, was he exhausted. He felt it down to his bones, a deep and persistent ache. He didn’t know when next he would get a chance to rest; it was daunting to think about all the hours that separated him from his bed. And even once he made it to bed, there was no guarantee that he would be able to actually fall asleep. He swallowed hard. He wanted nothing more than to remain here, in the sanctuary of Greg’s quarters and his arms. 

“I’m so sorry,” Greg repeated softly. Chakotay let out a slow sigh through his nose.

“I know.” He pulled back and gave Greg a chaste kiss. “Thanks.”

But Greg didn’t let him go, not entirely. He gripped Chakotay’s hands, holding him in place, and it was only then that Chakotay truly took notice of him. Greg was still fully dressed, not in the Starfleet-issue pajamas that Chakotay was used to seeing on him at this hour, and there were deep creases at the corners of his eyes that spoke to his own exhaustion. 

“I didn’t wake you,” Chakotay said quietly, and to his credit, Greg didn’t try to deny it. 

“No.”

“It’s late, though.” Chakotay glanced around the room suddenly. There was something - he had seen _something_ on his way in that hadn’t fully registered; something that wasn’t part of the normal decor. Greg had been living in these quarters for almost a year, but they were still as impersonal as they had been on the day he’d moved in. They were almost bare, and so it was readily apparent when something new appeared.

Chakotay’s gaze landed on the table, and he noticed a PADD sitting next to the one that he brought along. 

“You got a letter, too.” He turned questioning eyes on Greg, who was fighting to keep a neutral expression. “ _Greg_.”

“When the Doctor delivered news about this ship to those back home,” Greg said softly, “he didn’t leave anything out. He told Starfleet about who’d lived, who’d died… and who had been picked up along the way. And, um, apparently news of my discovery caused a bit of a stir.”

Greg’s fingers were digging into the palms of Chakotay’s hands, he was holding on so tight. Chakotay squeezed back reassuringly. It helped having this to focus on; having someone else to worry about.

“Who’s it from?” he asked gently. Greg cleared his throat, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Well… let’s see. It’s from my great-great-great - no, wait, I had this figured out earlier…”

Chakotay’s breath caught in his throat. “Greg -”

“It’s ten greats, I think, if I plotted out the family tree right,” Greg went on. He was rambling now. “See, ‘cause on average there was a new Watson-Lestrade born every thirty years, and William - he was the one who wrote the letter - was born in 2342, making him the tenth ‘great,’ and then his little girl was born in 2371, so she’s the eleventh -”

“Greg.”

Greg stopped speaking abruptly, and Chakotay watched him swallow hard. 

“That letter is from your _family_ ,” Chakotay breathed. Greg gave a jerky nod. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “From one William Watson-Lestrade, of Bristol. Three hundred years, and that name never died out. I told -”

He broke off and cleared his throat.

“I always told John it was ridiculous, combining our names,” he continued quietly. “Too clunky. I wanted our boy to have his name. He’s the one everyone would always remember, anyway. Why burden David with my name, too? I’m not anything. I guess John was right, though. God. Three hundred _years_. I wish… I wish he could have known.”

Chakotay drew him close, cupping the back of his head, and Greg buried his face in Chakotay’s shoulder. He didn’t weep, but he shuddered in Chakotay’s arms for several long minutes, and his fingers dug into Chakotay’s back. 

“You aren’t a burden,” Chakotay murmured against the shell of his ear. “You aren’t forgettable. You are so _damn_ special, Greg. You’re kind and brilliant, and that man is damn lucky to have the name _Lestrade_. Damn lucky.”

He pulled back so that he could press his lips to Greg’s forehead. “And I’m damn lucky to know you.”

Greg gave a weak chuckle.

“I don’t understand you, sometimes,” he said softly.

“Why, because I care about you?”

Greg deflected the question by asking another. “Do you want to see them?”

“There are pictures?”

Greg walked over to the table and picked up his PADD. He activated it and scrolled through several screens before he handed it to Chakotay.

“That’s William,” he said, “and Caroline, his wife. Charlotte’s the little girl; she just turned three.”

Chakotay gazed at the holoimage, taking in the dark-haired man with the broad nose and kind blue eyes. He was brawny and tall, and his wife and child seemed almost delicate by comparison.

“He’s got your nose,” Chakotay said after a minute. Greg let out a choked laugh.

“David was adopted,” he reminded Chakotay gently. Chakotay slid an arm around his shoulders.

“I know. Doesn’t matter.” Chakotay pressed his lips to Greg’s temple. “You have family, Greg. And they’re going to be waiting for you.”

Greg sank against him, and Chakotay wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a loose embrace. 

“Little one’s going to be an old woman by the time we get home,” Greg said quietly, his words slightly muffled by Chakotay’s shoulder. “William, too, if he’s not long gone.”

“He’s going to be an old woman?”

Greg gave a wet chuckle. “You know what I mean.”

Chakotay held him for a while longer, raking fingers through the short silver hair. Greg gave a sigh and pulled away. 

“This is stupid,” he muttered in a thick voice, rubbing the back of his hand across his cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m so -”

He broke off and shook his head. 

“I’m sorry about your friends,” he said finally. “Truly. That’s horrible. I can’t even imagine…”

“Yes, you can,” Chakotay said gently, feeling something prickle behind his own eyes. “You know _exactly_ what it’s like.”

“You’ll get through it,” Greg said after a moment. “Doesn't feel like it, but you will.”

Chakotay swallowed and said, “I know,” even though he didn't.

“Funny thing is,” Greg said quietly, “I don’t know if I even want to go… home.”

He lifted bruised eyes to Chakotay’s. “It’s not my home, Chakotay. Not anymore. It hasn't been for centuries.”

Chakotay swallowed hard. He had been longing for home for so long, wishing for it with every fiber of his being… and now, with this letter, he was slowly beginning to realize that he didn't have a home to fight for anymore. His friends, his colleagues, his family… they were all gone.

The only home he had left was right here on this ship, with this man. 

“I want a home I can’t have,” he said softly, the words bitter on his tongue. Theirs was a shared grief, now. “I know how you feel.”

Greg reached for his hand, his face filled with too much understanding, and Chakotay held on tightly. 

“Do you at least have time for some coffee?” he asked. Chakotay shook his head.

“Tuvok and Seven will be reporting in soon. I need to get back to the bridge.” He swallowed hard several times, trying to rein in his composure. Greg reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down Chakotay’s cheek; they came away wet. Chakotay sighed. “I wish –”

“I know.” Greg offered him a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes – and how could it, after all Greg had been through today? Chakotay was amazed he could even manage the ghost of a smile at all. He squeezed Chakotay's hand. “Go.”

Chakotay sighed. He rested his forehead against Greg’s, breathing in the spice and warmth of his skin.

“I’ll be by after gamma shift," he whispered, and Greg nodded.

Chakotay kissed Greg one last time before releasing him abruptly. He turned on his heel and strode briskly towards the door, his feet carrying him away before he could even remotely consider changing his mind.


End file.
